Accidental Magic
by pouf
Summary: MOVED to 'Crossing Over', penname 'poufellyanah'.
1. Voldemort's Accident

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**Accidental Magic**

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**Chapter 1****: Voldemort's Accident**

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

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Voldemort woke to a blinding headache. His last clear memory was that of his killing curse somehow rebounding on the brat and coming straight at him. From there it was easy to deduce that he had been hit by his own curse, and now he found himself in a situation that he most definitely did not like: he was no longer in his body.

Panic. Rage.

His peaking migraine grounded his jumbled thoughts long enough for him to evaluate the situation. Contrary to his expectations regarding the effect of his horcruxes on his 'death', he had apparently not been reduced to a wraith by the killing curse. He was… in a cage?

Who _dared_ imprison Lord Voldemort!? Ragerageragerage—

A loud, shrieking wail startled him out of his emotional tumult. Potter? The killing curse _had _rebounded, so it was conceivable that he was still alive. No, that wasn't right. The wail was too close… almost as if it came from… the cage?

Confusion. He did not like being ignorant. Anger. Ignorance made people powerless, and that was right after 'dead' on his list of things he did not want to be. Determination. The ignorance issue had to be resolved immediately.

Voldemort examined his loud entrapment; it was warm, soft, and panicking—emotion from an object? The entire situation was starting to get far too out of hand. To his short-lived relief, he found that there were orifices to the outside world … a world that was merrily blurring and disproportionally tall. After further observation, he took note of the mudblood's corpse lying not too far away from robes and—was that _his_ wand? The wail grew louder, and he noticed bars and blankets around him.

A frigid, sinking calm washed over him with the realization. He was in the brat's body. The only way that could have happened, short of accidental possession while in wraith form (sadly not the case, as he couldn't for the life of him move any part of his—he mentally spat the word—prison), was that his consciousness was a horcrux, trapped in the body of a very much _living_ Potter.

It was preposterous. Lord Voldemort did _not_ throw ineffective curses, nor did he fail to kill mere infants, and he most certainly did not make a mess of his horcrux rituals only to end up as a powerless entity sealed off in an infant.

He could not _possibly_ allow himself to remain in this humiliating situation.

Voldemort extended his awareness within the cage in search of Potter's soul: if he was lucky, it would be weak and easily pushed out of the body. He did not, as it turned out, have any luck at all. In fact, as all things that night did, things went wrong. He did find what he was looking for, but the brat's soul was solidly attached to its body. Not only was it as bright as it could possibly be, but it was also surrounded by an odd binding shield—was that _love_ it was made of?—that appeared to send off rather hostile intentions toward Voldemort.

He tried to reach for the soul; the shield prevented him. He tried pushing the soul away; the shield shone brighter. He tried stealing energy from the body to throw it at the shield in hopes of destroying it; the latter was unaffected. He tried lashing out with the strongest, most destructive legilimency he could muster; the stubborn, godforsaken shield still held.

That arrogant mudblood had seemingly set up an infallible protection against his efforts. Outright ousting or destroying the brat was impossible.

Well, perhaps there was another way. He certainly wasn't giving up: he was getting this situation under control, no matter what it took. Ideas flew madly through Voldemort's mind; each was examined and rejected in a flurry of angry thoughts… until one of them—a word, really—caused the hubbub to quiet: merge.

His consciousness was, after all, only 1/7th of a soul; it wouldn't take much to merge it with the still-developing soul of the infant. The shield probably wouldn't protest, as he wouldn't be harming Potter—in fact, he was going to be strengthening him: Voldemort's own magic would combine with the brat's, and his consciousness after the merge would still contain all of his memories. Hopefully, the shield would interpret those as an extra protection from magical attacks rather than a nefarious influence on Potter's _innocent_ mind. Voldemort would, of course, be getting what he wanted: a body, with the additional bonus of a much larger magical core. In a word, power.

He refused to even consider the possibility that merging his small soul sliver with a full one would change him in any way. He was, after all, Lord Voldemort. Surely, he could overpower any influence of the brat's soul. It was therefore without any hesitation that he drew nearer to the glowing orb and its shield binding, making sure to keep his intention to merge without harming Potter in the forefront of his mind. When the shield didn't attack him or even repel him, he edged closer and closer, until he felt Potter's foreign presence prodding at him—and then the brat's soul was both around his own and inside it, and it was stifling, and he sure hoped the unpleasant child was suffering more than he was, and—and then he was Harry, no, Potter—he was Lord Voldemort, not some helpless child!—it was overwhelming, and he didn't know who he was any longer—oh but he resisted, long after he forgot what he was fighting—and then Harry and Voldemort blacked out for a second, and when they woke… they were no longer two entities.

A quick examination confirmed to the consciousness that it was in Harry Potter's body, only… its identity was unclear: both Voldemort and Harry, and neither of them. Voldemort-who-wasn't-quite-Voldemort-anymore decided at that moment that he would most definitely never go anywhere near soul magic again. His current predicament was complete and utter _chaos. _He was both the malevolent culprit and the anguished witness of his parents' murder, for the sake of magic. He even recalled two perspectives: one was gloating about the Potters' murder, and the other was in a panicked state, half-aware of what had taken place. Definitely no more soul magic. He only hoped that, once he managed to sort through the pandemonium in his mind, having a complete soul would make him sane enough to permanently stay away from the current bane of his existence.

And so it was that Voldemort/Harry, still wrestling with his identity and trapped in his crib until someone saw fit to release him, attempted to bring his fingers to his temples to relieve his growing migraine… only to find that his infant's body lacked basic motor control. Instead of the desired effect, an exaggerated muscle spasm sent one of his arms flying into the crib's banister, and his fist slamming painfully into his nose. Abject frustration, wild disbelief and various profanities flooded his thoughts.

For the second time that night, his emotions were cut off by a loud cry. Well, well, well. It appeared that a very devastated person had finally stumbled upon the scene. At least, whoever it was—luckily, probably not the old coot, as he wouldn't have had such an exuberant reaction and was more likely to send a sycophant anyway—wouldn't be trying to kill him. Hopefully, if this person was any danger to himself, he could force a bout of accidental magic to defend himself… He waited with baited breath as rushed footsteps hit the stairs and grew louder as the intruder ran to his room and skidded to a halt before Lily Potter's body. He watched Sirius Black sink to his knees and a torrent of emotions cross his features. The man's face was agitated, caught between rage and grief as he swore to torture and murder Pettigrew. Voldemort/Harry didn't really pay attention to the wording.

Instead, Voldemort/Harry, once more a victim of his identity crisis, found that he was darkly pleased by the idea of making his family's betrayer suffer. In fact, he had quite a few ideas for drawing out the rat's pain indefinitely, most of which relied on dark magic to force his would-be victim to remain alive and conscious long after the pain levels would have caused his nervous system to shut down… It was therefore his amused and uncontrolled gurgle (a far cry from Voldemort's hysterical laughter, which actually sounded better when he heard it as Harry, he absently noted) that finally drew Black's attention to him.

He was engulfed in shaking arms before he even processed Black's movement toward him. He was being _hugged_. And—for Salazar's sake, _why?_—_cried on_. Lovely. It would almost be worth it to say something silly in parseltongue to make his torturer let go of him and end this farce. But if he was to judge the affectionate monster a priori… the Black family didn't exactly breed in favour of quintessential sanity, and distraught men who had just lost their best friend and been betrayed by a close friend couldn't possibly be stable. Parseltongue was not a good idea. The man would probably think him possessed (not entirely falsely), an imposter (again, not entirely falsely), or a dark wizard (not falsely at all). Either way, he would likely be an accidental casualty of Black's insanity if he even so much as hissed a single word.

As he reached these conclusions, Black seemed to regain some sense; he began to look around frantically, muttering a string of incoherent nonsense about secret keepers, traitors, and guardians. Really, for a pureblood from a Dark family, it was almost insulting that Black didn't even have enough of a grasp on occlumency to lucidly organize his thoughts. At this rate, the idiot was going to hunt down little weak Pettigrew while everyone thought _he_ had betrayed the Potters. The endeavour was almost sure to end in a disaster. Well, no matter. He _was_ a blood traitor, an irresponsible one without any sense of self-preservation. Voldemort/Harry scoffed. Black was as foolishly Gryffindor as they came. If only he was in more pleasant company…

His wistful hopes met an abrupt demise when _worse_ company came along: Rubeus Hagrid. Of course, he heard him lumbering around like a great big oaf before he saw the half-giant, but it was his words that finally made Voldemort/Harry realize that he was not yet out of the proverbial woods even though the 'soul situation' was no longer an immediate concern.

"Er, Sirius—look, yer goin' ter have ter hand 'Arry there ter me, yeh see," here, his chest puffed out in pride, "Dumbledore sent me ter get 'im, I'm s'posed ter bring 'im, fer safety I mean, yeh understand." The barmy old coot! The nerve of him! Sending an incompetent, uneducated half-giant to handle a _toddler_! And Hagrid, barging in like that and demanding things… why, had he no sense of tact?

Thankfully, Black appeared to share his opinion. At the very least, he seemed reluctant to release him to Hagrid's _tender_ care; his arms stiffened around him. Voldemort/Harry took the moment of hesitation as his cue to make sure that he stayed with Black—definitely the lesser evil—and drew on the trauma of the evening to push a loud and distressed wail as he tightened his grip on Black's jacket. He even burrowed his face into the man's chest for effect. There; that should be enough of a hint.

Miraculously, his act worked; it tipped the balance in Black's struggle to decide between Harry and Pettigrew.

"Well, he's safe with me," Voldemort/Harry inwardly cheered as Black spoke, "Dumbledore probably just thought that Harry was alone in here." Not a particularly coherent explanation, let alone for someone like Hagrid, but he couldn't expect much out of a mentally unstable wizard. Once again, sheer luck seemed to be on his side; the half-giant actually accepted the flimsy argument!

"Yer prob'ly right," a tear slid down his face—had he no pride?—as he continued, "but don't yeh think yeh ought ter bring 'im somewhere else?" His query was met with silence; it was quite clear that Black was still disoriented. Voldemort/Harry heard Hagrid shuffle his feet when the other man's silence grew long.

Finally, Black gathered his dismal wits and hoarsely let out a whisper, "I… I don't know what to do."

"Dumbledore would know what ter do," Hagrid mumbled under his breath before addressing Black, "We could always bring 'Arry to Dumbledore, he'd know." A quick glance at Black's face, disguised within a particularly exaggerated gasped sob, revealed that he was actually considering Hagrid's idea.

He did not like where this was going. Where was Snape and his acerbic tongue when you needed him to ward off floundering idiots? Voldemort/Harry toyed with the idea of using the imperius curse on one of the imbeciles. He looked at his wand, which was still lying on the ground next to his crumpled robes, from the corner of his eye. Even if he didn't use it right then, he couldn't just leave it there to be snapped or placed in a ministry exhibit, it was _his _wand and he was _tired _and sick of this idiocy, and he _needed_ it and—the yew wand flew into his clumsy hand. Aghast at his burst of accidental magic, Voldemort/Harry whirled his head around to see if it had been noticed. Apparently not; the two men were still discussing what to do. Presently, Black was back to being hesitant, and Hagrid was still singing his cherished headmaster's praises. Good; they weren't watching him. He once again turned his attention to the wand. He needed to keep it safe in one way or another. He couldn't exactly crawl or apparate away to find a hiding spot for the wand while he was being 'supervised' by these two, but neither could he openly keep it. The entertainment of seeing the Light wizards' reactions if they found Potter 'playing' with a Dark Lord's wand wasn't worth losing it to them.

Before he could reach a decision, a voice he could have picked out among thousands interrupted Black and Hagrid. "Gentlemen," its owner pointed his wand at Black with a stern face, "I'm terribly sorry to put an end to a discussion which I'm certain is delightful, but I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to." Dumbledore. Why was he not surprised? _Everything _in the last few hours had gone spectacularly down the drain, so of course the manipulative, meddlesome old fool _had_ to show up.

Voldemort/Harry (he _still_ needed to figure out who he was) decided that he would forevermore loathe Halloween.

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	2. The Nightmare Continues

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**Accidental Magic**

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**Chapter ****2: The Nightmare Continues**

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

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_Previously_: _Dumbledore shows up at Godric's Hollow to find Sirius and Hagrid in their attempt to decide what to do with Harry, and Sirius, who he still believes to have been the secret keeper, holding Harry. Voldemort/Harry, exhausted and exasperated, still doesn't know what to do about his wand._

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With Dumbledore's sudden appearance and frosty tone of voice, Voldemort/Harry froze right along with Black and Hagrid. He could just imagine what they looked like to the old fool; a criminal holding an innocent child hostage in an attempt to manipulate a poor, gentle half-giant. He gurgled in amusement at the completely erroneous interpretation (after all, _he_ was the criminal, Black was the innocent in need of help, and Hagrid was doing the persuasion). He cursed his lack of motor control as his giggle caused him to accidentally wave his wand and create a shower of green sparks. Dumbledore's piercing eyes darted down from Black's face to Voldemort/Harry. With a sinking feeling, he realized that the blue orbs were far from twinkling. He was doomed. In an instant, he felt his blood rush from his face—Dumbledore was going to figure it all out, he always did, he _knew…_ His panic brought about the recollection that his nerves had not felt this frayed since the day he had inadvertently looked into his basilisk's bulbous eyes _before_ he had created horcruxes, only to realize, after practically feeling his heart stop out of fear, that the great serpent could control its gaze and that it would never harm a descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

And then the moment ended. Dumbledore's eyes snapped away from him to focus on Black. Voldemort/Harry's attention came back to the present and he recalled that, to the world, he was Harry Potter, a toddler. Not Tom Riddle. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't suspect him. Though he was currently helpless, as he had been at the time of that incident with the basilisk, Dumbledore would never consider harming Harry Potter. He probably thought that Black had taken the wand first and that he had merely grasped it as a toy. He was safe.

"Mr. Black, I believe it would be in your best interest to relinquish your hold on young Harry," the headmaster's voice had grown even colder. Apparently, Dumbledore didn't agree with this last assessment.

"But—wand—what? No, no, the _rat_, we have to…" Understanding finally dawned upon Black's face when he trailed off; he realized that the headmaster thought him guilty.

Dumbledore, either not noticing the change or unaware of its true meaning, insisted: "I will not repeat myself, Mr. Black."

Hagrid was ignored when he enquired, "Dumbledore? Wha's goin' on?"

"Professor," Black grew even more agitated, eyes wild and voice urgent, "You don't understand, I—"

He was cut off by Dumbledore's disarming spell. Black's wand flew out of his back pocket, but Voldemort's wand curiously stayed in Harry's grasp, unaffected but for a slight glow. Voldemort/Harry realized that he had yet again had a bout of accidental magic. Twice in just a few minutes was a bit much. Surely, Voldemort's control over his power couldn't be shattered by the addition of Harry's still immature magic… He stored the odd happenstance in a corner of his mind for later consideration: the situation with Dumbledore was still not resolved.

"Wha…? Wait!" The poor man was even more confused, but Dumbledore did not give him time to recover as he immediately attempted to summon Harry out of his grasp. Voldemort/Harry's magic had apparently not yet calmed down, and it seemed that he implicitly considered Black the lesser evil; though he gave a startled yelp when he felt the tug of the _accio_, it was dispelled instants later. This constant accidental magic was really beginning to annoy him; he _hated_ losing control. Truth be told, he was even starting to feel a little light-headed from the power rush. Bodies as young as this were not meant to act as conduits for much magic at all. He was going to end up knocking himself out if he wasn't able to reign in his magic soon; already, he could feel his fingers weakening around his wand. That was unacceptable. Voldemort/Harry quickly allowed his body to go limp in order to gather his strength in his hand, and tightened his hold on his wand. He was not going to let it slip out of his grasp to be picked up by _Dumbledore_ of all people.

The older wizard appeared as stunned by his repeated resistance to spells as Voldemort/Harry was. Fortunately, his shock gave Black enough time to get frustrated enough to blurt out a rather crucial piece of information.

"Would you just _listen_?! I wasn't the secret keeper! I was a decoy for Peter!"

_Finally_. One could practically see the highly entertaining 'Oh' of surprise on Dumbledore's face as he slightly lowered his wand, though he kept it aimed in Black's direction. Well, at least that was _one_ half-resolved problem…

Or perhaps not. "I find it curious, then, that you knew to come here at this time, Mr. Black, and that no one at all was informed of the change," Dumbledore had swivelled his wand back into an offensive position, "Surely, if everyone thought you the secret keeper, it would have occurred to you that you would be blamed if the Potters were betrayed. It hardly seems logical that nothing could indicate your innocence."

Dumbledore was such an exasperating, stubborn old man. To start using logic _now_ of all times?! Whenever it was needed (Voldemort/Harry could personally attest to the case of the chamber of secrets), the professor displayed a startling lack of forethought and bleated along with the other trusting, ignorant wizard sheep—and when he didn't need to be suspicious, the old coot just went ahead and did his best to hunt down every single possible break in logic. Fantastic.

"Oh for the love of—look, I was worried, alright? I wanted to check on Peter, to be sure that he was still alright, and he wasn't _there._ So how do you think I reacted, huh?! And we didn't tell you because we—just look at the rat!" Black's voice rose, "Can you honestly say you'd think him capable of what he just did? CAN YOU?! And now he's running around, and instead of going after HIM, you waste time accusing ME!" To his horror, Voldemort/Harry found himself once again being cried on, this time out of frustration. It was mortifying.

Once more, Dumbledore slightly lowered his wand, clearly hesitant to believe Black. "Well then, dear boy," Dumbledore wearily persisted, "You wouldn't object to lending the dear child to an old man until we reach the bottom of this matter?" How touching. A fossilized fool wanted to protect him.

"Fine," spat Black, "I'd rather hang on to _my _godson, but if that's what you want, do your thing."

So it was that Dumbledore cautiously approached Black and Voldemort/Harry. Well, he most certainly did not want to be handled by Dumbledore. It was time for an encore performance of 'Poor baby Harry doesn't want to let go of uncle Padfoot'. To think he'd been reduced to this… He gave a masterful wail when Dumbledore attempted to take him from Black, and made a show of shying away from the old man. The latter hesitated, but did not draw back. Help was mercifully provided by Hagrid, who seemed to have finally understood the gist of the issue.

"Er, y'know, 'Arry didn't want ter let go of Sirius earlier either, wen I tried ter take 'im," he stated, "Kinda reminds me of young animals, wen they're alone an' all. Want to cling to safety, they do, an' they don't want ter let go of it."

And, without further ado, in a typically light-hearted fashion, the tension wilted away. Voldemort/Harry wanted to feel shocked. He truly, honestly did, because if he didn't, it would be admitting that Dumbledore's behaviour was acceptable and _normal_. But it was so _Dumbledore_ that he couldn't bring himself to be surprised that Hagrid's comment—hardly of relevance for an important decision—had convinced him of Black's honesty.

"Ah, you're only too right, dear boy. In dire times and circumstances, the most unconscious of intuitions tell much of the truth."

The twinkly, psychotic old goat was _insane_. Voldemort/Harry had never been so tempted to obliviate himself.

Black tiredly nodded. Hagrid looked proud. Dumbledore was twinkling again. Those three looked as if it were a normal evening, when Dark Lords did not vanish away and just-orphaned young boys did not survive killing curses. Speaking of which…

"Nonetheless, I fear that we have yet to fully resolve the situation," he turned to Black, "As much as it pains me to jump to such matters, Harry will require a guardian and security arrangements as soon as possible; when news of tonight's events spread, he will become a symbol for the Light—and a target for the Dark."

Ah yes. _That_. Why, he'd almost forgotten about _that_ with the Black-Dumbledore situation. Orphaned. _Orphaned_, again. With the charming difference that, this time, it was entirely his fault. It was chilling, yet, at the same time, the thought felt like boiling water engulfing him. He could have had parents, parents that cared, and his parents weren't even two hours in the past, they'd been _there—_and now they weren't, because of _him._

Sorrow. Guilt. Self-hatred. Insecurity. Fear. He was going to end up at the orphanage again. Panic. Not the orphanage. _Anything_ but that. Odd fist-sized acidic globules that burned small indents in the wooden floor dripped from the tip of his wand, attracting the attention of the three men in the room, who had yet to emerge from the solemn silence Dumbledore's words had brought.

This sobered him. No, he wasn't about to let _emotions _drive him into a corner and weaken him even further than his previous accidental magic already had. He pushed down the feelings, not bothering to consider whether the merge with Harry's soul might be the driving force behind them; that was a question to be examined later. He had to calm down. He had to remain in control. Voldemort/Harry enforced the directions in his mind. _Observe, evaluate, plan, and act_. There had to be a way not to end up at an orphanage…

"Well, it certainly seems that Harry is feeling rather magical tonight," Dumbledore meekly chuckled, "and that he has quite an attachment to Tom's wand."

Voldemort/Harry mentally groaned at the headmaster's change of topic and his use of that disgustingly muggle name, but quickly refocused his thoughts. Keeping his wand was just as important as avoiding the orphanage, and if he knew the old coot, if he was going to allow him to keep the wand, it would be on the basis of some silly idea. Perhaps another 'hint' to elicit a reaction…

"Ain!" His attempt at claiming ownership of the wand with a well-placed 'mine' came out as a ridiculously pathetic squeal; he tried once more. "Mai—n!" Slightly more satisfactory; at least this one was comprehensible.

"He even seems to have decided that it belongs to him, correct, Harry?"

Voldemort/Harry resolved to let out a happy affirmative gurgle for the old coot. After years of being the recipient of his mistrust and dislike, it was truly bizarre to have Dumbledore so clearly besotted with him.

"But—Professor Dumbledore," Black intervened, "You can't mean to let Harry keep that—that—_monster's_ wand!"

Voldemort/Harry's eye twitched, but succeeded in suppressing other outward signs of his resentment.

"Indeed, I intend just that," came the cheerful answer.

The response shocked Black into an outraged silence, but apparently stirred Hagrid into action.

"But tha's You-Know-Who's!"

"Yes, yes, my boy, I'm well aware of its previous owner," Dumbledore once more answered innocently just as Black recovered.

"Then _why_ are you even suggesting to let a toddler keep it?!"

"Ah, but young man, do recall Mr. Ollivander's preferred phrase: it is the wand that chooses the wizard, and it would appear that we have before us an exemplary case of such a selection. In fact, legends of old allude to powerful wands' ownership passing from the defeated to his defeater—in this case, from Voldemort to Harry. I'm certain you were read the _Tale of the Three Brothers_ in your youth, and that you know of the legendary Elder Wand's criteria for its chosen master. I would not presume to interfere with the complexities of wandlore, my boy."

Ah, there it was, the expected silly, completely ludicrous idea concocted by Dumbledore. The arrogant old man thought himself so omniscient that he overanalyzed everything. He probably even enjoyed mystifying his audience with long-winded, obscure deductions derived from his 'great wisdom', but at least the despicable tendency was working in his favour.

"Then you'll only give it to him when he turns eleven?"

It really was interesting, how practically every Light wizard was so subservient to the coot; his involvement in business not his own always seemed to result in others relying on him to make all the decisions, even when the concerned parties clearly disagreed.

"Why, Mr. Black, Mr. Potter won't know how to use it before he attends Hogwarts! I see no harm in permitting the poor child to keep it as a memento when the most he can do is throwing a few sparks around," Dumbledore concluded sternly, as though he were reprimanding a wayward student.

Black looked conflicted for a moment, but it was not long before his shoulders sagged and he visibly caved in.

"Fine," he sighed and paused, "What do you suggest I do about security? My _dearest _mother is still at Grimmauld Place, so living there for the wards is out of the question… My apartment is protected, but…"

_Wha—?_

"At the risk of rubbing salt in the wound, I would suggest placing it under the Fidelius immediately; I will be the secret keeper for the location, and will not reveal it to anyone. You two will be perfectly safe for the moment. I will, of course, add wards and attempt to find more efficient ways of protecting Harry."

The conversation continued, but Voldemort/Harry was no longer paying attention; instead, he was focusing on a single fact.

He was not going to the orphanage.

Far-ranging implications didn't even graze his mind; all he knew was an unknown feeling bursting within him, one that had no words but nonetheless deafeningly proclaimed inherently good things—and then the emotion became a roar, and his magic joined in with it and overflowed into his wand.

He had just enough time to register the formation of what looked to be a spherical patronus before weakness from magic overuse harshly threw him into unconsciousness.

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	3. Note: MOVED STORY

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I am moving the story (under the title **Crossing Over**) to my joint account with ellyanah, not-surprisingly called **poufellyanah**.

I promise to update over there soon, and I apologize for the trouble.


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